
While temporarily
Erudite,
Ephemerally,
A fool–and brave–
I spilled
Irrational
Irritation–
Black–
Upon the page.
But would Society
Stand for this?
A mirror, held,
To countenances
Tarred with evil,
Soiled, with self-
Aggrandizement?
Not long.
Now, fatuous,
Fatigued, and famished;
Calcified,
Like geologic layers,
Holding fossils,
That conceal an ancient tale;
Mired in mud;
A barbed-wire necklace
Draped around
My seizing frame;
Restrained:
I rage against
The taming forces,
Dull, mundane.
Is this the fate
Of all wild spirits?
Torture,
By a thousand cuts?
Until we crack,
In desperation;
Purchase, dear,
Our precious freedom;
Do their despicable bidding,
For them:
Gnawing loose
Our writing hands?
And so, un-armed,
And humbly harmless,
Muzzled,
Maimed,
In a sickening hush:
We consider it luck,
To escape with our lives,
And chastened,
Scurry off.
Copyright 2020 Andrea LeDew
For another poem about a writer, read The Writer.
This is such a vivid depiction of censorship, and, in the last stanza, its ultimate effect.
Thank you Liz.
You’re welcome, Andrea.